The elevator doors slid open on the 78th floor with a soft, expensive chime.
Elena stepped out onto black marble veined with gold. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering sprawl of Manhattan below—lights like fallen stars, indifferent to the blood still drying on her dress.
Two men in dark suits flanked the private vestibule. They didn't draw weapons; they didn't need to. Their eyes did the threatening for them.
"Signorina Rossi," the taller one said, voice flat. "He's expecting you."
Of course he was.
She lifted her chin. "Then take me to him."
They patted her down—quick, professional, impersonal. The pistol was removed from her clutch without comment and placed on a glass tray like it was a forgotten accessory. She let them. Fighting here would be suicide.
The double doors at the end of the hall opened before she reached them.
Luca Moretti stood just inside the threshold.
Five years had sharpened him into something lethal. The boyish softness was gone—replaced by hard angles, broader shoulders, a stillness that felt like the moment before a blade drops. Black dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal corded forearms scarred in faint silver lines. His ice-blue eyes locked on her instantly, unblinking.
He didn't smile. He didn't speak.
He simply looked at her—like a predator deciding whether the prey was worth the chase.
Elena forced her feet forward. The click of her heels echoed too loudly in the silence.
"Luca."
One word. It came out steadier than she felt.
His gaze dropped to the dried blood staining her silk gown, then lifted again to her face. Something flickered in those cold eyes—too fast to name.
"Elena." His voice was low, rougher than she remembered. "You look like you've come to a funeral."
"It was one."
He stepped aside in silent invitation. She walked past him, catching the faint scent of cedar, gun oil, and something darker—something uniquely him.
The penthouse was all sharp modern lines: black leather, smoked glass, abstract art that probably cost more than most people's lives. A wall of windows showed the city bleeding neon below them. A bar cart stood to one side, crystal decanter already open.
He closed the doors behind her with a soft final click.
She turned to face him. No preamble. No pleasantries. The clock was ticking—her uncles would only hold the Rossi soldiers together for so long before panic turned to mutiny.
"My father is dead," she said. "Shot execution-style in his own study less than two hours ago. The Moretti crest was carved into the bullet casing they left behind."
Luca poured two fingers of amber liquid into a tumbler. He didn't offer her one.
"Bold," he murmured. "If true."
"It is true."
He took a slow sip, watching her over the rim. "And you came here… why, exactly? To accuse me? To beg for mercy?"
"To make a deal."
That got a reaction. One dark brow lifted fractionally.
Elena swallowed the lump in her throat. "Your family has the manpower, the connections, the international reach my uncles don't. You can find who did this faster than anyone. You can help me gut them."
"And in return?"
She met his gaze without flinching. "You name the price."
Silence stretched between them—thick, electric, dangerous.
Luca set the glass down with deliberate care. When he spoke again, his voice was velvet over steel.
"You want my help." He stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. "You want my soldiers. My information. My protection." Another step. "You want me to risk open war with whoever is stupid enough to frame my name for this hit."
He stopped inches away. Towering. Unreadable.
"Then you give me something I want."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She already knew. She'd known the second she stepped into the elevator.
"Say it," she whispered.
His hand lifted—slow, almost gentle—and brushed a dried crimson flake from her cheek with the pad of his thumb.
"You," he said softly. "In my bed. In my penthouse. On my terms. Every night I want you. Every way I want you. Until I decide the debt is paid—or until the people who killed Vincenzo Rossi are nothing but ash."
Her breath caught.
Not mistress in name only. Not a polite arrangement.
Full surrender.
Body. Pride. Control.
She searched his face for the boy she used to know—the one who'd once promised her forever under a rooftop blanket. All she saw now was hunger edged with something darker. Revenge? Possession? Regret?
She couldn't tell.
And that terrified her more than the deal itself.
"You hate me," she said quietly. "You left without a word. You let me think you were dead or that I meant nothing. And now you want to own me?"
Luca's thumb traced the line of her jaw—slow, deliberate.
"I never hated you, principessa." His voice dropped to a near-growl. "I hated that I couldn't keep you safe then. I hated that the life I was born into would have eaten you alive. So I left. To become something that could protect what mattered."
His fingers slid into her hair, tilting her face up so she had no choice but to meet his eyes.
"But five years is a long time to starve. And you just walked into my territory wearing my favorite color—blood red—begging for my help." His grip tightened just enough to sting. "So yes. I want you. All of you. Until the revenge is finished… and maybe longer."
Elena's pulse roared in her ears.
She could walk away. She could spit in his face, call for her driver, try to rally what was left of the Rossi name on her own.
She'd be dead inside a week.
Or she could say yes—and become the weapon she needed to be.
Slowly—deliberately—she lifted her hand and placed it flat against his chest. Over the steady, powerful beat of his heart.
"I accept," she said. "But hear me clearly, Luca Moretti. This is a transaction. Not love. Not forgiveness. When the killers are dead and my father is avenged… I walk away. And you let me."
For one heartbeat, something raw flashed across his face—pain, maybe, or fury.
Then it was gone.
He leaned down until his lips brushed the shell of her ear.
"Deal," he murmured. "But know this, Elena. Once you're mine—even for revenge—walking away might not be as easy as you think."
He straightened. Stepped back. All business again.
"Dante," he called toward the door.
The tall guard appeared instantly.
"Escort Signorina Rossi to the east wing. Have clothes and a room prepared. She'll be staying indefinitely."
Dante nodded once and gestured for her to follow.
Elena turned to go—then paused at the threshold.
She looked back at Luca. He was already pouring another drink, profile carved in shadow and city light.
"One more thing," she said.
He glanced up.
"When we find them," she continued, voice steady as steel, "I want to be the one who pulls the trigger on the man who ordered my father's death."
Luca studied her for a long moment.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted—just barely—in what might have been approval.
"Done."
She walked out of the room with her head high, blood still staining her dress, heart hammering like war drums.
Behind her, Luca watched her go.
And for the first time in five years, the cold mask cracked—just enough—for a single, dangerous thought to slip through.
She's back.
And God help us both.